Manner of Devotion

by DJ Clawson

"Everybody likes to go their own way--to choose their own time and manner of devotion."

Jane Austen, Mansfield Park

Author's Note: My policy: Update twice a week or when a chapter reaches 5-10 comments, whichever comes first.

Warning: Accents ahead.

Chapter 33 – The Promise

From a certain perspective, Darcy felt it was fortunate that Grégoire was not able to be present for the events immediately following his arrest. They were devastating enough as they were in everyone's memory; he did not want that on his brother's mind as well.

The initial surgeon on call had merely stitched up Mrs. MacKenna to stop the bleeding. For a bit she seemed to recover as they gathered her things for her and transported her to the hotel, but by the time they reached their room, she had suspicious cramps. Fortunately Darcy had prepared for the worst and already found and had the card of the best surgeon in Dublin. When he arrived, two hours had passed and she was exhausted and nearly delirious, clinging to Georgiana's offered arm and screaming Irish curses that none of them could decipher.

The surgeon immediately pronounced the baby dead and her body in a pseudo-labor. This idea, Mrs. MacKenna did not take well, even though she must have expected it. She was tired, upset, and in great pain, but she was not a raving lunatic. She grabbed Darcy's hand and squeezed it so tight he was relieved it was the lame one. "Yeh take care'a Grégoire. Yeh promise me."

"He's my brother. Of course I will."

"Yeh promise me!"

"I promise," he said softly.

In the background, the doctor was mixing up his concoction for pain, probably some cheap version of laudanum. She did not seem particularly aware, focused on Darcy. "I didna' mean fer him ta get involved. It jest happened."

"I know," he said, but probably not in the way that she thought he knew. This was not the first time Grégoire had gotten himself in over his head.

"I love 'im," she said. "I loved 'im. It wasn' right but I did."

He had less argument with how she felt about Grégoire and more with the massive deception over a period of months that had nearly cost him his life, but Darcy didn't say that. This was not the time to say that. "I will tell him."

The surgeon gave her a healthy dose of whatever was in the glass, and when that wasn't enough, he made her sip whiskey. No one had the authority to question him, but it did seem to knock her out. William Kincaid escorted his wife out of the room; she had every right to sit by a normal labor, but this was not a normal labor and the only thing in question was how badly it would end.

They sat in the sitting room of their suite and waited. Occasionally she would return to consciousness and wail, until the doctor found some way to knock her out again. They sat in silence because no one could think of anything to say.

At last the surgeon emerged and handed a bag to his assistant, who quickly left. "I've done the best I can."

"Will she live?"

"If she is fortunate, yes. I do not think she will bear children again – that part of her is too damaged."

Darcy just nodded, and paid the surgeon. He had to leave to begin collecting people to speak on Grégoire's behalf and submit his own statement, but he felt the need to at least see her first.

To his surprise, Mrs. MacKenna was awake, if barely, in the bed. The hotel would not be recovering the sheets. "It was a boy," she said with the remains of her voice.

"I am very sorry, Mrs. MacKenna."

"I felt 'im kick. We laughed about it – now it's gone." But she had no energy left even to cry. She just let the tears fall as they did. He briefly squeezed her hand, and excused himself to collect his brother.

It was nearly twelve hours later when he returned to the hotel. He had not slept at all since the previous morning, and Grégoire, obviously very little. Fortunately witnesses were not hard to gather – the family that had let Kincaid jump through their window were immediately questioned, as was the landlady about Mr. MacKenna's regular behavior (none of which spoke well of his character) and his shouting threats at his wife. There was also the matter that the knife was an old soldier's blade, from the war of 1812, in which he had fought. With the evidence stacking against the other suspect, Darcy convinced them to release his brother, and the two of them numbly returned to the hotel.

His instinct was to somehow get Grégoire cleaned up before Georgiana saw him, his clothing and hair still caked with dried blood, but Darcy was tired and that instinct occurred far too late to make any difference.

"How is she?" were Grégoire's first words to his sister, who all things considered, was taking the sight of him incredibly well.

"Resting. You heard about – "

"Yes."

Nothing else needed to be said. Kincaid offered his condolences, and Darcy had hot water and a tub brought up as fast as possible. In the changing room, they left Grégoire to himself, perhaps to find some peace in a tub of hot water.

With Grégoire safely released and Mrs. MacKenna out of danger, general exhaustion overtook the party, and somehow, clothed or at least with their outer layers removed, Darcy and the Kincaids fell into their separate beds.

Grégoire padded out of his room, clean and shaven, and back in his normal clothes. His fingers ran through the rosary beads as he crossed the parlor and slowly opened the door to Caitlin's room, bringing the light from the parlor in. She was pale and even from a distance he could see her strained features, contorted in pain even in sleep.

He was too distracted to pray, and he had no right to bless her. He turned to leave.

"I know yeh won't come in," she said, "and I am sorry – so sorry."

"I'm sorry, about the child," he said. "I think ... I think I understand why Saint Patrick pointed me to you."

"What?"

He looked away. It was so hard to look at her, even in her distressed state, and not see beauty. "I had to save your life. It cost you the child, and it broke my heart, but it saved you from him," he said. "I only wish I could dismiss my task and move on." G-d help me, I still love you. "I am sorry – I have to go." He could not stay alone with a married woman – a married woman he loved, and had loved, in every sense of the word.

"I love yeh," she said. "I can't not say it."

"I know," he replied, and left. As he padded barefoot back to his own room, his chest felt heavy. His limbs felt heavy. The weight of it all was just so terrible. The world turned dark around him, and he felt the same way.

As they waited for supper, Darcy composed a letter to Elizabeth, relating all of the events of the past days and explaining that they would likely be in Dublin for the duration of the trial. If it would be long, he would ask her to come. He had not made that assessment yet. He did not know the speed of the local courts here.

Grégoire was still sleeping, and their guest was being attended by a nurse. Georgiana joined him in the parlor, wearing a shawl of the same tartan Lord Kincaid had worn earlier. She kissed her brother's cheek and then sat down across from him. "What will happen, do you think?"

"Mr. MacKenna will either have a long sentence in Australia if the law is exceptionally kind, or he will hang." He did not mince words with her. He did not have the energy, and she was not a little girl anymore, even though she was still so much smaller than him.

"And Mrs. MacKenna will be a widow."

"I know." Because he had been considering it from the first moment of rational thoughts after the arrest. If MacKenna went to the gallows, Mrs. MacKenna could not possibly be expected to wear jet for very long. And then she would be available ... "I think Grégoire should return with us to England, after this is settled. Immediately."

"Brother! You are so cruel!"

"He needs distance to think," Darcy said.

"You do not approve of the marriage."

"I do not approve of the way their relationship came about," he said, though what she said was not untrue. While it was amazing that Grégoire was thinking of marriage at all, did it really have to be a barren Irish peasant girl? "It was all deceit."

They were speaking in hushed tones. "Not all of it," she said. "Just one important detail."

"Very important."

Georgiana smiled. "But think of what our relatives would think if he brought her home. Mrs. Maddox's head might have an apoplexy."

"Georgiana," he said sternly, but not all that sternly. "He needs time to think. If he is truly in a love that knows no end, he will merely sit in a stupor for a few months while she publicly mourns her husband and then rush back to her the moment he gets a chance. A man can only take so much heartbreak."

They sat in a state of frustrating limbo for nearly two weeks. Mrs. MacKenna was seen again by the surgeon, who was pleased with her recovery. Darcy stood in the room as he gave his pronouncement, but it obviously brought no comfort to the woman who had just lost her child and any chance of another one. She sat in despair on one end of the hotel suite and Grégoire the other, and neither of the two did meet. Grégoire could not visit the sickbed of a married woman. No one was going to enforce this; he enforced it himself. He went to Mass every day, and he prayed. He did little else. Darcy bought him books to tease him into occupying his mind, and both the Kincaids tried to make conversation with him, but he would have none of it. His stitches came out and the bruises on his face faded and he was pronounced a healthy man, to which he gave a sad smile and said nothing.

Since Mrs. MacKenna could not be moved, her account of the events of both nights in question – and all that had preceded it – was taken by the clerk for the judge as Mr. MacKenna sat in judgment. The twisted tale of the man who had killed his own unborn child to get back at his wife for cheating on him with a monk was the talk of the town, which made their isolation all the more unbearable, because none of them wanted any part of it. Darcy wrote his wife but did not ask for her to come; by the time she'd arrive, they might be ready to leave. After posting the letter he came to regret it; what would he give for one night with Elizabeth now?

At last Grégoire was called to testify before the magistrate rendered his decision. He was so utterly calm; it was as if he was in a trance. Maybe the events had cut some emotional nerve, because he was silent all the way to the crowded courthouse. Darcy escorted him and sat beside his brother in anonymity until Grégoire was called forth. "Mr. Grégoire Bellamont." The judge, being English and a former University student, spoke French and could pronounce his name. The crowd of rabble that had been following the case more closely than those actually involved hollered and hooted as Grégoire silently took his place before the judge.

His testimony was as his composure: numb and with barely any emotion. While Darcy was happy that Grégoire did not break into tears or emotional pleas in front of a crowd that would boo him and laugh at him even further than they already had, it bothered him to see his younger brother so distant. It also bothered him to notice some of Grégoire's hair had fallen out, on the top, but he hardly had time to think on that now. The only time Grégoire showed any emotion beyond looking dazed and drained was when he was told of all those who had testified to his good character, coming to Dublin of their own expense – the O'Muldoons, the priest from the church, many people in Tullow, and some people from Drogheda. Darcy turned his head at the sight of James MacGowan, a man he never expected to see again, now out of uniform and with an older couple that were clearly his parents. They came to see Grégoire, having already given their testimony to his charitable and pious character.

"Thank you, Mr. Bellamont. You may be seated."

The judge apparently did not need any time. Mr. MacKenna was called to stand before him as he donned the black cap over his massive wig. "Neil MacKenna, for the most heinous crimes of assaulting three people, one being your own wife of many years, with intentions to kill, and the murder of your own unborn child, I sentence you to be hanged at the gallows at noon tomorrow."

The gavel striking the wood was as if it physically struck Grégoire, who leaned on his brother for support. While Darcy had little (or no) sympathy for Mr. MacKenna, the cuckolded husband would now burn in hell, and that was no easy pill to swallow. The crowd was cheering and laughing, however, and the judge had to rap his gavel many more times to restore order so that Mr. MacKenna might be escorted back to jail.

"Your Honor," Grégoire said, and even though his voice was soft, it was heard. "Might I approach the bench?"

The judge looked at him skeptically. "You may, Mr. Bellamont. Be brief."

This was not anything Darcy had been informed of previously, but Grégoire was always surprising him. Grégoire passed the shackled MacKenna and whispered to the judge, who whispered back, apparently confused at what he had said. There was hardly an ear in the room that wasn't tuned in to try to hear them, but no one did. Grégoire stepped away, bowed to Mr. MacKenna in passing, and returned to his place in the rows beside his brother.

"By special request," the judge said, "Mr. MacKenna is to have a private execution in the prison. This court is adjourned."

Darcy looked at his brother, but Grégoire offered nothing in public, and they both were forced to focus on making a quick escape from the furious crowd, now denied their spectacle. It took a long time to restore order; the masses were still swarming and yelling as the brothers ducked into a carriage and began the ride back to the hotel.

Since Grégoire would not, Darcy broke the silence. "You were under no obligation to request such a thing."

"I am the guilty party in that I made him more of a spectacle than his crimes alone. He can hardly be expected to meet G-d with the sounds of the mob still ringing in his ears." He looked out the window of the carriage. "Everyone deserves one moment of peace in their life."

"Even you," Darcy said. Grégoire said nothing.

Mrs. MacKenna did not attend her husband's execution or his burial. She still could not sit up for long, much less leave her room. The news was delivered to her hours later by the priest who had administered final rites in the prison. He closed the door behind him when he spoke to her, but he delivered the news to the rest of them. "His Excellency the Bishop, upon reviewing the matter, feels that three months is an appropriate time of respectful mourning for the man to whom she was joined in matrimony."

They thanked him and he left. Now there were real arrangements for them to make. The widow MacKenna would live – her stitches came out only the day before – and what kind of life she would lead would be up to her, but Grégoire hesitated not a second to say he would pay for any arrangements she wanted, both for her mourning period and beyond. He did not, however, say this to Mrs. MacKenna. The plans were drawn up without her, and presented the next day with his notable absence.

Caitlin MacKenna, wearing a dressing gown died black, was sitting up, and nursing her aches with fine whiskey. "Is 'e really goin' back ta England?" was the first thing out of her mouth. Unlike Grégoire, she did not appear without emotion. In fact, the very opposite.

"That is between you and him," Darcy said, and presented her with an offer to set her up wherever she liked, with such and such number of servants, and an annual income from a larger (and generous) account. She gaped at the money. "...I," she broke off. "It's'all him, isn' it?"

"Do not think he is the only person who cares for your good health," Lord Kincaid said, carefully dodging the question.

"Fine. Just – take me outta Dublin. I 'ate dis place. I always 'ave."

They nodded. Darcy sent out a solicitor provided by the hotel, and a house was purchased in a small town on the coast south of the city. She deemed herself well enough to make the journey, and seemed insulted when they implied that she might not be. Darcy sighed and insisted that they would all have to see her there.

It was nearly a day's ride in two separate carriages. Georgiana, who had developed some kind of friendship with Mrs. MacKenna while attending her, assumed that responsibility alongside her husband. The Darcys rode in the second carriage.

If she was not tired and ill enough from the journey, Mrs. MacKenna nearly passed out at the sight of the house – modest by any of their scales, but what she announced to be a "feckin palace." A seat had to be brought for her to sit and recover herself before she could even go in.

Darcy and Grégoire did a quick inspection of the house the latter had purchased sight unseen. It was a fine house for its size. "She will consider this a luxury," he said. "She deserves some happiness." It was his longest speech since the trial.

"And you?" Darcy said, since Grégoire seemed to be in a talking mood as they stood in one of the empty bedchambers, looking out at the field. "Or have you contracted the Darcy curse and must be without emotion?"

Grégoire almost seemed to smile as he watched Mrs. MacKenna be attended by her servants on her new front lawn. "I came here to do something and I did it. By all logic, I should return and go on with my life." He sighed. "I suppose you will oppose this match."

"Her background is a little ... questionable." He had to say it. "She lied to you, Grégoire. I wouldn't dare say it was for your money. I don't doubt she had and still has emotions for you. But she was entirely remiss in divulging her real identity."

"Thank G-d she did not," Grégoire said, "or I might have missed her on my path." He turned to his brother, truly acknowledging for the first time. "Three months. Two, technically, and twenty-seven days."

"And you must give her a day to take off her mourning dress."

"I hardly think that takes a day. Maybe half, from what I've seen of your guests at Pemberley."

Darcy found himself laughing – at a joke. He could not remember when he had felt such joy at the very idea. "Before we say our good-byes – since you seem to be in such a mood, I will ask of you a question."

"Of course."

"What are you doing to your hair?"

Grégoire reached up to the growing bald spot on the top of his head. Even doing so dislodged hairs, and he took down a few strands. "I'm getting older, I suppose. Perhaps my grandfather Bellamont was bald." He shrugged. "I have many concerns. This is not one of them."

"As long as it's not on my side," Darcy said, unconsciously running his hands through his own hair, which despite being partially grey, was still very much in place.

"What will I do without yeh?"

Mrs. MacKenna had recovered and was standing not far from the water with Grégoire, alone with him for the first time since the night he returned from prison. "You could try knitting. Or sewing. Or painting china cups. Some fancy lady activities."

She took his hand and he did not resist. "Do I have ta keep sayin' I'm sorry or can we jest let it go?"

"I know you are," he said, and raised her hand to kiss it. "All things said I would not have seen it go any differently."

"Yer serious?"

"I would not chance that it would have been worse," he said. "We are all following G-d's path – I know that now. And as terrible as it is sometimes ... there are some moments that make it worth it." He let her arm go and removed his silver cross from his neck - the one he never removed, not even when bathing. Before she could say anything he put it over her head, where it got a bit lost in her black lace veils before finding its way to her neck. "I only give this away when I intend to reclaim it."

"So yer – "

He kissed her – and not on the hand. That stopped conversation for a moment. "Now I've ruined your reputation and must make amends by marrying you as soon as possible." They laughed together in relief. "Goodbye, Caitlin."

"Goodbye, Grégoire," she said, her voice wavering.

"Will you take me, even when I do come back?"

She grinned. "Even if yer bald by then."

Next Chapter ... Mourners